But of course. I went again to the Book Market down in the 15eme, close to the metro stop, Portes de Vanves, on Line 13. Who could resist? Certainly not I ...
It took me forever. Of course, one pass is not sufficient to make a choice. I early determined that I was better served with yesterday's thought of Orwell if it were in English. So I wandered. These books are delicate creatures, their pages flimsy and browned, their owners hovering, like mid-wives. And each needed to be stroked. And the publishing details examined. The binding inspected. The internal pages sniffed.
Oh, yes. Do not forget the smell test when deciding to purchase a book.
And constantly being way-laid, I was. By the buyers and the sellers. Encased in their turned-sod beauty. And the signs: Achat et Vendre; Sarko is a this, and Sarko is a that.
The blackbirds singing in the Plane trees hanging o'er. The pesky french mutts demanding to be heard. Aroma de stale-food wafting from behind a stall here, and eau-de-tabac assaulting the senses from over there.
Until my decision it was reached. The bargaining began, the prices came down. I had done it. Three illustrated books from early in the twentieth century just right for little girls. Now THAT will surprise you!